Recollections

When I was just a little boy, I told my parents once: "I wanna be a stand-up comic. And a rap-battler. And then I wanna star in a sitcom—and afterward, in a crime drama, something like Ozark. I wanna be a Batman!"

My parents looked at me, then at each other, and mumbled something like: "How come this is our son?"

We were an average working-class family living in a small village which, at some point in its history, as a matter of fact, started to be called an 'agro-town'. My parents actually were school teachers. But where I am from, teachers were treated even worse than the most miserable working-class folks. Of course, I am exaggerating. But I'm trying to give you a glimpse into my autobiographical childhood haps and mishaps. And I thought that, perhaps, distorting the facts and making this story more dramatic would provide it with some certain alluring vibes.

I knew poverty, every-other-day chicken neck stews, and nettle soups. As my parents always were busy at school teaching kids how to become competitive in the labor market, the food-procuring task was put on the fragile shoulders of our cat who went by the name of Jerry. He was an undisputed authority on our street, and local dogs were scared of him more than of thunderstorms. Jerry was a truly intelligent furball. He very soon realized that we humans don't feed on mice. But—nickety nackety, rustical quality—those are the delights of the countryside: we had a lot of chickens, hens, and roosters sauntering up and down our streets like eternal wanderers. Only they weren't. Everybody in this world comes and goes. And it was up to Jerry to decide on the fate of these fowls. He had developed a perfect strategy how to pilfer the poor birds from their owners in such a way that nobody could ever suspect him in the crime. I think he was swindling us because, very often, all that he was bringing to the table were some scraps, and I cannot remember even a single instance when we had a chance to enjoy a meal cooked from a chicken breast. But we didn't complain. What use would it be to complain to a cat?

I was the youngest in our family (not taking Jerry into account here, but even if I did, I'm pretty sure that cat-wise he was much older than me, or maybe even than any of us). My sisters were much older than me and had left home and got dissolved into the big world outside, only occasionally visiting us. My parents were busy at school. I was on my own. Of course, I had to spend a great deal of my time at school as well. But I don't really have many fond memories of the place. Definitely, I had much more fun at kindergarten. But it was so long ago. The only episode I can now recall very vividly is of how I once managed to escape from this fortress, protected by a high fence and vigilant nannies. Well, the truth is, the fence had holes in it, and the nannies were the opposite of vigilant. So I just walked away through the front gate. Easy. I wouldn't do that if I didn't meet a friend—I think he was studying at middle school at the time; yes, I had big friends!—and he had a bike, and I thought: "Why not?" He dropped me at another friend's place, and we played computer games for a while. My brain was working hard making up a plausible legend for my parents. Well, eventually, I came up with a whole bunch of them, and because they all were so good, I spit them all out to my folks. As a result, I wasn't allowed to go and watch a football match that was taking place in our village that same day. I learned that I should better never tell lies, or if I do, I should stick only to a single storyline. Something they don't teach you at school.

Enough about sad stuff. Maybe we were not rich, and I used to run away from kindergarten and lie to my parents, but we had a portable gramophone and a lot of vinyl records at home. Posh, huh? And I loved these things. The vinyl records, I mean. They mostly contained some silly songs for children; now, I can remember just a few of them. They were nice songs. For example, one went like this: "Antoshka, Antoshka [boy's name], let's go harvest potatoes!" I think I liked listening to these songs; what I liked even more, though, was playing with the records outside. The really good thing about them is that they have the shape of a disc. What discs are well suited for? Right, for throws! I didn't know about the existence of frisbee discs back then, but I was managing just alright without them. Vinyl records fly damn well! Until they crash into something.

Wow. There are so many memories stashed behind my braincase that I must admit I'm surprised. And so much dust! Gotta do some cleaning. There are things that are pretty unpleasant (I wasn't a perfect kid, we weren't a super-perfect family), some are rather sad, and some are pretty embarrassing—no way I gonna talk about them. But some are hilarious.

Here, there's a pull on the line! I set the hook, and... cut!

Once, I stole my sister's dream. I can remember this as if it happened yesterday. We talk with my sister, and I suddenly tell her: "You know, I had this strange dream. I wake up in the middle of the night, approach the window, pull the curtain a little bit to my right, and peep outside through the narrow opening. Across the street road, I see me lying on a hay heap under our neighbor's tractor. I hurry downstairs, open the front door—planning to bring myself back into the house; it's summer, but it's still pretty cold outside at night—I open the front door, and a man—a tall, ugly, and scary man—stands there, just in front of the opened door—"

"It was my dream!" my sister interrupts me. "I saw you outside under our neighbor's tractor, and I went to bring you back into the house, and when I opened the front door, I saw many small witches soaring in the air, flapping their small wings and not letting me go to you."

And we argued about it for a long-long time. At least, for a couple of years. It was the tall ugly man! No, they were the little soaring witches! I still am not sure if I'm convinced that it was her dream, not mine. The picture was so well-painted, so detailed, I can swear I saw it with my own closed eyes! Or could we experience a shared dream? Now on the Internet, I find articles that teach you 'how to mutual dream'. Thank you no thank you! I'm quite fine with just mutual living. I'd like to be on my own in my dreams, please, no intruders.

Even in my early childhood, I never believed in Santa; when I was four or so, one late December morning, we were celebrating Christmas in our kindergarten. There was a Christmas tree, there was music, there was Santa. Until I noticed that something was wrong and shouted as loud as lil kid's vocal cords can allow: "It's not Santa! It's our nanny!" The music stopped, all the kids started crying. I was cuffed and escorted into a juvenile detention facility, where I spent the rest of my life. Well, maybe it didn't happen like this. But everybody got upset that Santa was not real. And I became a realistic-sarcastic skeptic.

I also despised our so-called president even back then. Was I at least a tiny bit politically educated? I could hardly read! But I saw things for what they were. I could read people. I called him names. And the whole family supported my opinion.

As much as I used to question things, people, and everything, I also have always been (and still am) extremely critical of myself. "Stupid noggin!" was, by far, the most often name I used to refer to myself. At some point, I even forgot my real name, and when my parents were, for example, calling me "Andrei, dinner's ready! Come to the table quickly!" I was like: "Who the heck is Andrei?"

I know it's a bad thing to be overly self-flagellating and all; but hey, if you prefer me to go hard on you instead, I might consider this option.

I never became a rap-battler. Nor did I pursue a career in acting. Well, although I kind of act every day. I pretend to my relatives, my friends, and myself. Pretend to be what? I don't know. I guess I'm too good at pretending. Even I cannot figure it out.